The Turning of The Hives
by Lady Heliotrope
Summary: Post-retirement, Sherlock Holmes is living in the Sussex Downs. He's attending a local funeral when the casket flips over in a carriage accident. This problem was made worse by the maddening of the bees when the servants observe the superstitious ritual of 'turning the hives.' When the swarm clears, the wrong body is found there! Of course, Holmes is nosy and investigates.


**Gigue in A minor**

_Submitted to Sherlockology's Save Undershaw book campaign. Much more deserving people won publication._

The refreshing colors of late-spring worn by the village of East Dean on the Sussex downs were ignored by the people, who fretted in their too-warm black mourning garb as they gathered in the yard of Mrs. Dornsife's cottage. The sunshine challenged them on this beautiful, clear mid-afternoon in June, the pleasant weather incongruous with the grimness and solemnity of the gathering funeral procession. East Dean's new wardrobe included the green of ivy-clad walnut trees and the gold of willow warblers, and _life_ was in everything.

The mood of the gathering was restless, all of the gaiety of the season muted. Everyone was impatient to get back to their everyday lives - like bees returning to their purposeful pollen-collecting circuits, buzzing from cowslip to buttercup.

Who was sad on this occasion of Mrs. Dornsife's passing? Even her son, Doctor Nathaniel Dornsife, looked scarcely grim, conducting the pallbearers in their placing of the casket on the makeshift hearse.

Only the Dornsife household's cook, Mrs. Brown, wiped the back of her hand against her eyes as the men argued about whether or not to rope the heavy thing to the wagon. She stood in the cottage door, with the acne-scarred maid and gangly old gardener.

"No need to exhaust yourselves in this heat, gentlemen." Doctor Dornsife wiped a handkerchief over his portly brow.

The men of the village employed for the purpose of removing Mrs. Dornsife from the house muttered their thanks, and someone jumped into the driver's seat of the wagon-turned-hearse, helped Doctor Dornsife up, and cracked the switch on the back of the young mare, Blue.

Blue began to plod down the road towards the village church. The score of townspeople began to follow.

In the house, the cook was overcome with sentimentality – she bore affectionate feelings towards the deceased, despite Mrs. Dornsife's difficult invalid status for the past twenty years.

"Would you turn the bees?" she requested to Jonathan the gardener, who stroked his beard thoughtfully and nodded, ambling to the alcove in the back of the side garden where the cottage's beehives resided.

"What do you mean, 'turn the bees?'" asked the maid, sitting on the doorstep.

"My family's from Devonshire," said Mrs. Brown, "where it's well known that if you don't turn round the bee-hives of the house when someone's passed, the hives will fail."

"Does Jonathan know that?" asked the maid, watching the gardener awkwardly approach the hives with a hoe.

"'Course he does, love. He did it when Master Dornsife passed."

This was misplaced confidence, however; instead of pivoting the hives as the tradition dictated, Jonathan, in levering one to standing on two legs, managed to knock both hives over onto their sides. This riled the bees inside, and after a moment of confusion, they roared out, sending Jonathan running with a yell.

"Watch out!" cried the maid and cook, watching in horror. The bees, in their anger, fixed upon the mourners – and upon Blue, the driver, and Doctor Dornsife.

Stung, Blue reared and kicked with such force that the wagon tipped right over, sending the wagon's contents onto the dusty ground. Left relatively unharmed, both men leapt and scurried, along with everyone else, into the cottage and slammed the door against the swarm. Free of her harness, Blue galloped towards her favorite fields.

"I suppose we'll have a reception," said the cook, petulant, as Doctor Dornsife fussed.

"My poor mother," the doctor said, looking out the window where the coffin lay, top open and facing down.

"I don't suppose she'll mind if she gets stung," said one person from the company, stepping forward. "Still, it's hardly dignified, her current position. If you'd point me in the direction of your smoke-bellows, I do not mind tipping her back up again."

"Oh, thank you, Mr. Holmes, I do appreciate it," said the doctor distractedly. "Get Jonathan to help you. And Agnes," he addressed the maid, wandering into the sitting-room where most of the people settled like migratory birds, "where'd you put my medical bag?"

Thus saying, he went to administer treatment to the townspeople for stings.

"The smoker's in the shed, Mr. Holmes, if you're aiming to do what you said. Jonathan's in there now," the cook said, getting out flour and fresh fruit from the pantry.

"Thank you, Mrs. Brown," said the retired consulting-detective, looking out the window to check the tide of insects before exiting the house.

Soon he and Jonathan returned with a brisk slam of the door, smelling of fire.

"Where's the doctor?" asked Holmes, but didn't wait for an answer, striding into the sitting room with a steely face.

"Any success?" asked the doctor, looking up from tending the paw of a ten-year-old girl.

"No," said Sherlock Holmes, "I'm afraid, doctor, I bear bad news."

The doctor shrugged. "In these circumstances, what could be worse?"

Holmes approached the doctor and said, close to his ear: "The body in the casket is not that of your mother."

The doctor's eyes widened with horror. "What? That's...incredible. Are you sure? Let me see." He ran to the kitchen and peered out the window.

"It's closed, but I can assure you that I speak the truth," said Holmes, sitting and rolling up his sleeve, from which a bedraggled-looking bee emerged. "You needn't rush out into the fray this moment. Look at this – this poor creature sacrifices itself for its hive but succeeds only in ridding me of my rheumatism," added the detective with gentle regret.

"I can't believe it," said the doctor, looking worried. "Would you help me then, Mr. Holmes?" he asked, wiping his brow against the anxious perspiration collecting there. "Not because I presume your talents have nothing better to occupy them, but you've been invaluable to our little community in solving several problems in recent months. There...there should be no body in there other than my mother's, I assure you. Would you help to discover the whys and wherefores of this matter, please?"

"It's my pleasure, doctor," said the detective, carrying the dying creature on his arm outside and depositing it on a climbing-rose flower on the porch arbor. "And this is a matter of significant import to you, I'm sure."

"Of course," said the doctor with agitation. "So, do you know whose body _is _in the casket?"

"I have a few theories," said the detective, closing the door. "But first, I would like to establish a complete picture of the case. Let us retire to the privacy of your study, if you don't object."

Soon they were situated with their pipes and a few fingers of brandy each.

"Who do you think is in the casket, if it isn't my mother?" asked the doctor with caution, swirling his tumbler gravely.

Holmes, at his own directive, ignored the question, reclining in his chair with the watchful apathy of a cat.

"I met your mother on one or two occasions, you recall," said the detective, "and if you remember I quickly agreed with you that her illness was entirely a matter of conviction."

"Indeed," said the doctor with a sigh, clearly more interested in talking about the current problem than the circumstances prior. "I've told you much about my frustrations with her."

"Lively but resigned to seeking attention from the confines of her bed after the death of her husband," said Holmes thoughtfully. "Yes. I thought of her as a queen bee enjoying the ministrations of her subjects. You've also expressed your resentment at being ordered about."

"Because she really _could _help herself," said the doctor, "she just elected _not _to. She found pleasure in having us serve her."

"Hence, one may deduce that her sudden recent illness was unexpected."

The doctor nodded, his brow furrowed. "Yes. She was in a mood since Easter; nothing any of us did would suit her." He grimaced.

"And then?" prompted the detective firmly.

"Then one night, conversation between us became very thick, and she said that she was going to die, and that I would regret my words. Then she took a turn for the worse, with high fever and chills. It never happened before."

"Unusual, certainly," affirmed Holmes with a nod.

"Then she died. It was that simple, Mr. Holmes – yesterday morning, in the early hours, I awoke from a brief catnap in my chair next to her bed and discovered her gone. She was not dreadfully old, but she was not young either. I feel it was for the best."

"I see," said the detective, eyeing the brandy in his glass. "Is that all?"

The doctor nodded, and Holmes smiled vaguely. "Describe the circumstances of her funeral's arrangement."

"This morning, I went to visit the vicar, and I sent Agnes on the necessary errands. She went to Eastbourne with Farmer Tobias' hostler to fetch a casket and flowers from the shops there, then returned home. These preparations took only a few hours."

"And when did you place your mother in the casket?"

"Immediately upon its delivery, Eleven."

"Did you do it alone, or were you assisted by anyone?"

"No – my mother is light and entirely manageable by me alone."

"I see," said the detective, smiling. "One last question, doctor – your mother had no siblings, nor connections with her husband's family, is that correct?"

"Yes," said the doctor.

"Then let's go out and see the casket," said the detective. "I daresay the bees are tired enough and might have returned to their nest."

The men went out into the yard, ignoring the questions of townspeople who hadn't left yet. Many dead bees scattered across the ground, but no swarm remained.

Each took one side of the casket-lid and raised the heavy thing enough so that the doctor could look inside. Biting his lip, nervous, he gazed inside, then frowned and grunted with resentment as the detective began to laugh.

"You trickster, there's _no one in here_," said the doctor, letting go of the lid and glaring at Holmes.

"You, too, tried to pull the wool over my eyes." His eyes glinted with the good-humor that came to them when the solution to a problem appeared.

"I was not forthright, Mr. Holmes, only because of the awkwardness of the truth."

Holmes threw up one hand towards the heavens. "Providence knows, I've kept many awkward truths from becoming public knowledge."

"Hiding this secret is not a reflection upon my will to trust you, Mr. Holmes," said the doctor, abashed at Holmes' discovery. "My mother-"

"-Oh, of course, doctor, I quite understand. Don't imagine for a moment that I hold it against your character. She's gone to see her grandchildren, am I right?"

The doctor looked deflated, but relieved, as if he was glad to have his secret revealed. He beckoned to the detective, and they walked away from the empty casket towards the garden. "How you knew that, Mr. Holmes, I don't know."

"I merely take notice of peculiar details that the ordinary observer does not." Holmes' fingers grasped the underside of a rose as they passed, and he breathed its scent deeply. "For example," he said as they continued their stroll, "the post-master says I'm one of two people in this vicinity to receive regular weekly correspondence from outside of the region. Only one other individual within walking distance – you – have ever spent any significant amount of time out of the shire. Once I saw one of such foreign letters in your coat-pocket when once we encountered each other at the post-office."

"Oh. Yes. I thought I put it in my pocket right away, however."

Holmes' voice was tinged with glee. "It was that special effort which brought my attention to your letter, my friend. I presumed it business until I saw how you reacted to seeing me, and then I realized the greater significance of the feminine handwriting - not well-educated but practiced - the choice of stationary – unremarkable, in itself remarkable – and the distinct lack of salutation, neither "Dr." nor "Mr." on the address-label which suggests a lack of need for such formality in the context of the relationship. From this, and the regularity of the correspondence, I deduced either a lover or a family in some other part of the country."

"All that, Mr. Holmes, from one second's glance at a letter?"

The doctor was dumbfounded, and Holmes' lip curled.

"Given your long-standing habit of carving toy animals with your knife, combined with a total absence of said animals in your house and the occasional rattling of your dog-cart on Seaford road in the dead of night, clearly a family - one that you were desperate to hide from your mother and the general public. Deductions beyond elementary, doctor."

Dr. Dornsife nodded, "Great Scott! You're a marvel. Yes, my mother has gone north, to live with my children and their mother. Apparently, grandchildren are more important to her at this juncture of her life than what social transgressions I committed in my boyhood."

"Their mother is not your current love interest, either, which may also attract her."

"Yes, my mother likes Emmaline, whose letter you saw," said the doctor sadly. "I need not tell you that since establishing residence here in East Dean again, the mutual understanding between Mrs. Brown and myself particularly bothered my mother." He sighed and seated himself on a wooden bench, and Holmes joined him.

"At one time marrying Emmaline was a prospect, but she would have lost her employment, and I wasn't in a position to provide as a husband ought at that age."

"Nor was said employment something of which your mother would approve in a daughter, was it?" prodded Holmes.

"Well, no," admitted the doctor. "She was in the service of the family of my best mate in university, who I visited frequently."

Holmes just nodded.

"I knew my mother would never allow me to marry her, so we remained in secret for many years. But after my studies ended, my mother insisted that I return home and take up the practice of my deceased father. Ending things with Emmaline was the only honorable option. Having steady work was more important to both of us – now she lives in a cottage north of Eastbourne on the financial allotment that I send to her and the children. She sends dutiful reports on the boys weekly."

The doctor looked at Holmes tentatively, expecting Holmes to judge him. Unaffected, Holmes replied, "It is clear that, given the circumstances, you acted as honorably as possible. But how did your mother come to find out about your family?"

"After over twenty years of fastidiously locking my desk every night, Mr. Holmes, I was careless enough to have left it unlocked once."

Holmes cocked an eyebrow.

"Despite presenting herself as bedridden, my mother would roam the house at night. I saw her many times, but did not alert her to my presence. She would always check my desk to rifle through it. I believe she suspected the truth of the situation very early, but sought confirmation before confronting me. I never gave her the opportunity to confirm her suspicions until one day, she told me that she knew. That was a few months ago."

"I see. Continue."

"After finding the letter, she expressed deep resentment that I kept my family a secret. But if I told her the truth at the time, she'd have reacted badly. She denies it, but I remain convinced that I was justified. Ever since, she has been angry about the secret – enough that she herself contacted Emmaline and arranged that we would remove ourselves permanently to the same shire in which they lived. I begged her not to – I did not wish to leave my practice in East Dean. She didn't understand my resistance until she also realized my understanding with Mrs. Brown – and for that she was even more furious and determined to leave."

"Ah. So how did the situation resolve?"

"I took her to Emmeline's home, in the dark of the night. It was best to go then so that the people of East Dean wouldn't know enough to remark. But on the way, we quarreled, because I asked what she would like me to tell people who asked about her. I planned to say she was visiting family. She said such ambiguity was dishonorable. I said I preferred privacy. She thought me horrible. In her anger, she told me to host her funeral, and then no one _would _ask." The doctor smiled grimly. "So that's what I did, Mr. Holmes, and good riddance."

Holmes just laughed. "If you sought my confidence at the start, doctor, you might have avoided a great deal of trouble."

Doctor Dornsife nodded solemnly. "I considered it. You are a person worthy of a man's trust if any is. But I am used to keeping secrets."

"And I am used to finding _out _secrets," replied the detective, clapping the doctor on the shoulder. "And no doubt, with the panic of the situation, you forgot this when you charged me with righting the casket."

"Refusing your help in feeble effort to prevent you from uncovering the truth would have spelt out my guilt too clearly. Feigning ignorance felt a safer option at the time."

Holmes looked pensive. "Quite right, doctor – you are cleverer than most men. Now come, good fellow, let's finish what you've started. The townspeople are curious, and we've delayed long enough. By the by – does your staff know?"

"Jonathan – but he's a silent old goat. Mrs. Brown knows nothing."

Holmes sighed, reflecting. "I recommend you tell her. I feel that men must prepare for changes in the world - changes leaving them substantially less influential."

"What, will women take over?" asked the doctor breezily.

"Nothing so simple," answered Holmes, gravely eloquent. "Nonetheless, respect is their due."

The doctor huffed in reply, saying nothing.

Gently agreeing like violins in an orchestra, the bees in the hives buzzed, as gold and generous as the East Dean sunset that shone on the remaining funeral proceedings.


End file.
